Nonconcentricality
by OneO'ClockZeitgeist
Summary: He knew-he /knew/-that everything in Chernobyl would go wrong. He knew and yet no one believed him. Full summary inside! AU. Possible Tech/OC later on.
1. Chapter 1

{**Summary; **He knew-he _knew_-that everything in Chernobyl would go wrong. He knew and yet no one believed him. Nikolai left home-both Pripyat and Russia-for America, with hope that their medical aid would be better... and finds much more than he could have ever wished for.  
Guess who doesn't own DP? That's right, me~! This version of Technus is mine, I guess, though. :3 So's the plot. Which is totally. . . something. Yeah.

Hey all! First story that I'm publishing up in here. Don't kill me for it kay? You might have seen it on dA but I assumed there'd be more public. . . stuff if I did it here, too. So, here we go! Nonconcentricality (a word I totally made up, which is basically the state of not having a common center but is totally unrelated)-a Technus-before-he-was-Technus fic. Totally taking so many artistic/writer's liberties with this! Like. . . like, a lot. A /lot/ a lot. I always saw him as Russian/Ukrainian, I'm not sure why. This is also an AU, although we will be seeing other characters from DP here! Since it's an AU they're probably going to be in some completely random city later on but for now, we start out in Ukraine. Or, somewhere like Ukraine. Yes.

Let me shut up before I totally lose you guys, yeah? Yeah.

R&R please! u}

He knew from the moment the wave of nausea hit him that he had been affected by the radiation more than planned. It could have been one Gray, two Grays-or maybe more, and he just wasn't feeling the affects right now. His stomach turned and he buckled over, holding back a moan and biting his lip hard, almost drawing blood. He could taste something like metal in his mouth and it only triggered his gag reflex even further. It had been a day since the Chernobyl accident and already he was feeling horrible. Yesterday he had a headache, and now it was coming back full force. He wondered vaguely if he had a fever but he was alone, on the road toward Belarus. His parents were back in Pripyat and were probably dead; he didn't know how much radiation they had absorbed or if they had absorbed any at all.

To keep his mind off the sickness as he continued his traveling, he repeated the date to himself. "_27 kvitnya 1986._" One day after Chernobyl. One day after he knew everything would go wrong. How was he not in Belarus yet? How was he still traveling, still making his way there? It had been a day already. He should have been in Belarus, should have been in safe in a hotel far from the Chernobyl plant. But the border of Belarus was 16 kilometers from Pripyat-just over nine miles. In the hour that he had to travel before the reactor had exploded, he wouldn't have made it. Even though he was biking, he was probably only part of the way there. He would be lucky if he had even made it a quarter of the way. Right now, he supposed, he might be halfway. But it was wishful thinking.

"_27 kvitnya 1986._" Yesterday, the 26th ofApril, he had left the presence of reactor number four after his fellow coworkers had announced that they wanted to run a cooling experiment-one of which he was certain wouldn't work. There were too many risks with it anyway. By powering down the fans that helped to deliver coolant to the reactor's core, they were running the risk of having the reactor overheat-even if the turbines could generate enough energy as they freewheeled down. That was the whole core of the experiment: could the freewheeling turbines even do as they were tasked? Would they create enough energy to force coolant through tubes to their destination?

It was his doubt of the experiment's success that drove him to leave. His parents didn't believe him-and he couldn't convince them to come along. Alone, the 17 year old intern took his bike and some food and started his journey to Belarus. Nine miles wasn't much of a difference than one when it came to nuclear fallout. And-depending on how bad the explosions had been (because there were two of them, he knew that)-the fallout wouldn't have just been restricted to Chernobyl and Pripyat. He wasn't sure how far it had gone, but he knew that the force of both blasts combined wasn't going to stick to one place. It was exactly why he had been trying so hard to get as far as he could, so that he would at least have been guaranteed better health than what he was undergoing now. (But would he really be healthier in Belarus than here? It didn't really matter, he supposed, because either way he was feeling Chernobyl's affects and there wasn't any stopping that.)

He held onto the handlebars of his bike and pushed it along, stumbling every so often when waves of nausea would hit him. His head began to spin and for a moment he wondered why he was here, what he was doing—but then the memory of an argument with his parents forced its way to the front of his mind. In his memory he heard the word Belarus come out of his own mouth, followed by a flurry of words that sketched the outline of his goal. He was leaving Pripyat, going to Belarus; something about Chernobyl—but _what_ about Chernobyl? What had happened there? His bike clattered to the ground as he began to retch, though there was nothing in his stomach to give up. When had he last eaten? Why was everything swimming in front of him, why was his vision getting blurry? He dropped to his knees, dry heaving, clutching his stomach like a lifeline. Everything wavered in front of him.

Turning away from the bike, which sat on its side in the road, he retched again, putting an arm to the ground to try and support himself. His entire body was shaking, however; he couldn't keep himself steady. Another dry heave almost forced him to collapse. A tiny Ukrainian curse managed to pass his lips before finally his stomach gave in and another heave yielded what little food he had eaten before leaving home. He cursed again, wiping his lips. With one hand he searched around for the canteen of water he had brought with him; the other clutched sparse grass as he coughed and retched, quietly begging for the torture to be over. The nausea seemed to pass—at least for a moment—so he turned and grabbed the canteen, taking a swig of water to rinse his mouth.

Now he remembered what he was doing. He spit the water into the ditch on the side of the road and forced himself to stand, even though his legs shook beneath him and threatened to stop working completely. When he crouched to stand his bike back up, the world lurched heavily and he almost collapsed. But he managed to pull the bike up and held onto it for support, standing for a moment in the middle of the road as he tried to gain his balance and composure. He coughed slightly and started to walk, but hardly managed to make it ten steps before exhaustion hit. He couldn't do it. There was no way he could make it to Belarus, and no way he could turn around and make it back home to Pripyat.

_Maybe,_ he thought, _if I lay here for a moment and rest, I can try again in a few minutes._ But as he moved towards the ditch, his body suddenly aching to lie down, something in the back of his mind disapproved of the idea and stopped him short. There was a chance that if he were to lie down, he might never get back up. He tightened his hands around the bike's handlebars and forced himself to continue walking. He knew it was bad to force himself into this but there was no way he would get help otherwise. He had no choice but to keep walking, even if it was a danger to his health. (Part of him didn't care—_better to run yourself ragged than to die a coward's death on the side of the road,_ it said, but he tried hard not to listen to that.)

He took another shaky step, his body protesting every movement. His stomach began to churn again, his mind turned fuzzy. The world became a mix of colors, blurred together, but after blinking hard several times he managed to force the colors back into their rightful place. He could taste metal in his mouth again but instead of stopping he swallowed hard, forcing himself to ignore the impending nausea. _No, damnit; I am not giving up. I'm not stopping until I make it to Belarus. If this is my last living action then so be it. But I'm not dying here._

Eventually the stumbling brought him closer to Belarus but with no map or anything to tell him so, he had no idea. But his bad health finally brought him to complete exhaustion. On his knees, he clutched his bike and panted heavily, too afraid to eat or sip water lest he just throw it up minutes later. His stomach had been churning earlier, even though it had gotten rid of everything it contained just hours before. Unwilling to undergo the unpleasantness of vomiting once again, he refused to eat, even when his stomach complained of both hunger and nausea. Part of him knew that slowly this would probably end up killing him, but his hopes of making it to Belarus were so high, he refused to listen to his instincts. It was highly possible that resting would lead to death—and he refused to let that happen.

But determined as he was, he found that he couldn't ignore the screaming protest of his body any longer. His muscles ached, his stomach refused to relax, his vision kept swimming, and his head was pounding. There was no way that he could keep going in this condition unless he _wanted_ to kill himself. He had to rest, at least for a little while. He moved to the side of the road, putting the kickstand down on his bike so it could rest near him in the ditch. He sat down next to it, leaning back against the rise in the ditch's opposite side so he could see the road, and closed his eyes for a moment. He could slowly feel his muscles beginning to relax, their aching protest dying down. Even his stomach was starting to quiet. It gave a slight rumble of hunger and he put one hand over it, biting his lip. Did he want to risk trying to eat?

He licked his lips and sat up a little, reaching for the satchel dangling from his bike's handlebars. He dug out a package of crackers and opened it slowly, looking at the food apprehensively. There was still a bit of fear lingering in his mind; he didn't want to have to end up vomiting again. He clutched the crackers to his chest and closed his eyes, saying a tiny prayer in his head. _Please, let this stay down. I need this,_ he thought. He took a tiny nibble and swallowed. A moment passed and his stomach said nothing, no protesting or even a sound of agreement. He took a larger bite. Nothing. Soon the entire cracker was gone, and his stomach had made no attempts to get rid of what it had been presented. A tiny smile flickered onto his lips—the first in a long while. He took another cracker from the package, and then everything went wrong.

The world swayed and grew dim. He was vaguely aware of the fact that his stomach had rejected the cracker: its hardly digested remains lay next to him in the ditch. (With bitter amusement, he noted that he'd had at least enough sense in him—despite seeming to lose all other mental functions—to have turned his head, so that the vomit was on the ground instead of all over his shirt. It was a tiny victory against a large defeat.) The colors around him swirled nauseatingly and he had to cover his eyes for a moment in an attempt to regain whatever he had just lost. (Sanity? That seemed like a good guess.)

He coughed, spitting in the direction of his vomit puddle, and reached for his canteen. What was left of his spirits sank when he realized how empty it was. Not knowing how far he was from Belarus only worsened the situation, because he had even less of an idea how much water to ration out for himself. He sighed, which only led to more coughing, but once the coughing fit was over he opened the canteen and swigged half of what was there. He rinsed his mouth and spit, scooting closer to his bike. After a moment, he took a sip of water, his hands shaking with nerves. This was it. He wasn't going to make it. He let out a groan of defeat and rested his head against the ditch once more, closing his eyes in disappointment.

"So..." A pause. "So, this is how I'm going to die. I guess it was... fun while it lasted?"

He snorted. He must have lost his sanity. Who was he even talking to now? His canteen?The sky?Himself? None of them were listening—not the sky, not his canteen, and hearing himself speak of his demise only made him upset. There was nothing good coming out of this. He perked up a little at the sound of what seemed to be a distant rumble, but certain of his newfound insanity, he decided that it couldn't be real. He laughed a little to himself, shaking his head. "And now, I am hearing things. Beautiful."

With one last effort fueled by hope, he opened his eyes to see if perhaps he wasn't as insane as he thought he had become, but the world seemed to swirl and flip around him. He thought that maybe he had seen the briefest glimpse of a car, but then everything went dark before him and his head fell back against the grass. His last conscious thought was that he had just died a coward's death, but his head suddenly seemed too light for his body and everything abruptly came to a halt.


	2. Chapter 2

{**Summary; **He knew-he _knew_-that everything in Chernobyl would go wrong. He knew and yet no one believed him. Nikolai left home-both Pripyat and Russia-for America, with hope that their medical aid would be better... and finds much more than he could have ever wished for.  
Guess what? I still don't own DP. If I did, this wouldn't need to be here. . . or maybe it would. who knows?

Chapter 2! More stuff happens! We meet people! Sofiya and Ivan are so sweet, you'll like them. :3

R&R please and thanks. Uhm. Don't know what else to say so I guess, on with the chapter?}

"Is he waking up?"

"I don't know; I think he is. Should I shake his shoulder?"

"No, leave him. Let him come to on his own."

The words hit his eardrums in a way he could only describe as fuzzily. Everything seemed too soft, too muted; his head felt like it was filled with cotton and his body was aching yet numb. He tried to move his fingers, open his eyes, but his eyelids were still too heavy and he couldn't tell if his fingers had moved at all. He tried to push a word past his lips, any word, but everything lumped up in his throat, refusing to move. There was no point in trying to force anything. He let his eyes remain shut and focused instead on just breathing, the sound of his harsh but impossibly tiny breaths. Vaguely aware of a light jostling, he wondered where he was—there was also a low, fuzzy humming in his ears. It seemed familiar in some way, although he couldn't remember where he might have heard it. His lips felt dry and he wanted to wet them with his tongue, but he still couldn't move much. Everything behind his eyelids was dark. The sound of the two others speaking was softened by his cotton-filled ears, but he made no effort to try and distinguish their words.

After a moment he tried once more to open his eyes. He managed it just slightly; they opened a sliver and granted him a blurry view of the interior of _somewhere_. He wanted to frown but his muscles refused to let him. He tried to open his mouth and speak, but no sound came out. It was frustrating. He tried to talk once more, and managed a rough squeak. Embarrassed, he closed his mouth and eyes quickly, but his companions noticed and began speaking quickly and excitedly to each other. His fuzzy brain couldn't keep up, so he only caught bits and pieces of their conversation—"finally awake", "we have to feed him something", "where is he from?"

He knew he could answer that, if only his body would let him speak. He slowly began to move his lips, forming the words on his tongue. The two fell silent, and he assumed they were waiting intently for some form of communication to pass his lips. Several times, he tried to sound out "Pripyat" but couldn't. He stopped his attempt at speech abruptly, trying to focus. He would not let himself fall mute.

"Can you hear us?" Said one of the voices. It was low and thick, the voice of an older male. "Where are you from, boy?"

"P-prip… Pripyat," came the rough and feeble reply. "I'm from Pripyat."

"What's your name?" Asked the other voice; this one was female.

There was a long moment of silence as the reply struggled to come, but the older man cut him off, speaking to the woman. "No, don't make him work so hard to speak. He needs rest." Then, directed back to him,"We found you on the side of the road; what were you doing?"

"Belarus." It was hardly more than a whisper.

The man and woman spoke quietly to each other for a while, whispering hurriedly. Finally, they fell silent. Perhaps they were observing him, though he didn't bother to open his eyes to look. The woman spoke: "We are heading to Belarus right now. I am Sofiya; my husband Ivan is driving us. Your town, Pripyat, was evacuated earlier today. Were you with them?"

He didn't want to speak, so he shook his head lightly. The woman sighed a little.

"You shouldn't have traveled alone; didn't you hear about Chernobyl?"

A nod.

"Well, you should have been with someone. You've probably got that radiation sickness." Sofiya was quiet. The car hit a small bump and jostled them a little; he felt Sofiya's hand hold him still on the seat. "We'll be in Belarus soon. We'll bring you to a hospital."

"Thank you," he managed.

"Are you up to telling us your name?" Sofiya's tone changed from solemn to light and friendly. She put a hand to his head lightly, probably checking for a fever, and drew it away after brushing his bangs lightly to one side.

"Nikolai Akimov," he muttered.

"Nikolai," Sofiya repeated. "A nice name."

"Thank you." Nikolai opened his eyes a little. Everything was somewhat blurry, but he managed to blink a few times and things slowly cleared. He was lying down in the back of Sofiya and Ivan's car, his head in Sofiya's lap. She looked down at him around a bump in her belly, her long blonde hair falling just past her elbows. Her eyes were pale brown and she smiled at him, one hand to her stomach and the other brushing back her bangs.

"Hello there," she said. "You must be feeling a little better if you can open your eyes."

From the front, Ivan piped up, "He's got his eyes open? Good, good. We are almost to Belarus, the doctors will take good care of you."

"Thank you," Nikolai said again. Then, to Sofiya, a small smile on his face, "I don't want you to be too uncomfortable, I can sit up." He tried to gesture with one hand towards her stomach, but only managed to twitch his fingers. Sofiya laughed.

"The baby and I will be fine. won't hurt either of us." She smiled and patted Nikolai lightly on the head, and rested the back of her hand on his forehead for a moment. "You still have a bit of a fever. Would you like to sit up a little to try and drink something?"

When she mentioned drinking, Nikolai suddenly seemed to notice that his throat was actually rather dry; it accounted for part of why he was having trouble speaking much. He gave a light nod. Sofiya shifted and helped him sit up against her shoulder; he tried not to lean too heavily on her, but his muscles still felt like gelatin. He tried hard to keep most of his weight off of her, but he couldn't manage it. He frowned, trying to shift a little. "Sorry," he muttered.

Sofiya shook her head. "Don't worry about it; it's not your fault. Just try to relax, okay?"

"Sure," Nikolai replied. Sofiya opened a water bottle and held it near his lips.

"We'll have to do this slowly, so you don't spill anything, okay? Small sips." At Nikolai's nod she gently tipped the bottle towards his mouth, allowing him a small sip before moving the bottle away. She waited for a moment after he swallowed and gave him another small sip, tipping the bottle gently towards and away from his mouth at semi-regular intervals.

The water felt refreshing as it slipped down Nikolai's throat, and it no longer felt as dry as it had before. He smiled with relief. His stomach seemed to have settled while he had been unconscious, because it made no protest to the water. He swallowed and let out a small sigh, closing his eyes a little. He heard Sofiya close the water bottle and set it to the side as the car jostled lightly, bouncing him against her shoulder. He tried to open his eyes to look up at Sofiya and thank her again, but his eyelids were suddenly much too heavy and he found himself falling asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

{**Summary; **He knew-he _knew_-that everything in Chernobyl would go wrong. He knew and yet no one believed him. Nikolai left home-both Pripyat and Russia-for America, with hope that their medical aid would be better... and finds much more than he could have ever wished for.  
Still not owning DP. I will never own DP. I think we are all well aware of that (it's a good thing too you should be so glad about this).

This chapter is sad. It's also the last I'm uploading today because I don't have Chapter Four yet. I'm sorry! D:

So, uh, enjoy what's here, I guess? R&R also, because that's nice.}

"Nikolai. Nikolai, we're here."

Groaning a little from exhaustion and discontent, Nikolai tried to roll over, wanting to catch a few more precious moments of rest he felt he definitely deserved. But then he felt Sofiya's hand gently shaking him by the shoulder and his eyes fluttered open easier than they had before. He muttered something that even he couldn't distinguish and started to sit up. Sofiya moved her hand to his back and helped him up, leaning him against the seat. "Good morning," she said jokingly, patting his cheek.

Nikolai managed a small laugh and rubbed his eyes. His muscles were working better now, he observed. It was relieving. "Good morning," he replied, though judging by the light from outside, it seemed to be late afternoon. He brushed his hair back, wishing he had something to put it into a ponytail with so that it wouldn't keep falling into his face. Turning to look out the window, he noticed that they had made it to a hospital—finally, his body seemed to say, as a low headache began to pulse in his temples.

Ivan got out of the car and went around to help Sofiya out. "We'll come help you next," he told Nikolai, closing the door. The couple came around and Nikolai managed to push open his door, stifling a yawn. His muscles were still getting used to motion, and the effort of even pulling the door's latch seemed to be too much. He turned his body to step out of the vehicle and Ivan stooped to help Nikolai stand, pulling him up gently by his elbows. Sofiya put an arm around Nikolai's shoulders and Ivan did the same on Nikolai's other side, and together the group made their way to the emergency room, Ivan slamming the car door shut with his foot behind them.

Nikolai's legs seemed to not want to work, because each step was more of an effort than the one before it. He grimaced, trying to convince his body to work properly, but his motions continued to tire him out. He started to miss the sleep he had left, his body longing for a comfortable place to lay. His eyes closed for longer than it took to blink but when they opened again they were somehow inside of the hospital, and he was being sat in a chair in the ER's waiting room. Sofiya sat beside him and allowed him to rest his head on her shoulder, but whenever he began to nod off she would stop him, starting up a small conversation to keep him awake.

Ivan went to the front desk and came back a few moments later, holding two clipboards and pens. He handed one clipboard and pen to Sofiya and held the other for himself. "Help him with that, I'll fill this one out for you," he said, sitting beside her. Sofiya nodded and gently nudged Nikolai.

"I'm going to fill everything out for you, Nikolai," she said, "But you have to tell me the answers when I ask. Okay? Don't fall asleep, not yet."

Nikolai mumbled his agreement, trying to nod and force himself awake. "Okay," he managed.

"Well, we know your name—Nikolai Akimov." The pen scratched on the paper quickly. "Middle name?"

"Kirill."

The pen scratched a little more and Sofiya spoke as she wrote. "You're a male; what about your age? Birthday?"

"17. Born January 18… 1969." He breathed slowly, blinking a few times owlishly.

He was so tired, he didn't want to finish answering these questions. Couldn't he just be admitted, so he could lay on a comfortable bed and just go to sleep? But Sofiya wouldn't let him, and bit by bit they finished filling out the form. Ivan took the clipboard back up to the front and came back with a bracelet, which Sofiya put around Nikolai's wrist. Opening his eyes, Nikolai noticed that Sofiya had one as well. He furrowed his brow a little but was too tired to question why she too was wearing one. He yawned a little and leaned against her shoulder again, closing his eyes. Sofiya said nothing against it, and he started to doze off.

A little while later—although he wasn't sure exactly how long it had been—Sofiya was shaking him awake again. More walking, Sofiya and Ivan supporting him from either side, but everything was a blur to him in his hardly awake stupor. He hardly remembered the squeeze around his arm as his blood pressure was taken, or the walk from the triage to the room where he must have been told that a doctor would see him. At some point after he had finally gotten a chance to lie down, Sofiya must have been taken off somewhere else, because as he shifted a little he noticed that her hand was no longer on his arm. He missed its light, but comforting pressure.

The rest of his time in the ER was a dull haze. He hardly remembered the IV that was slipped into his vein, the switch from the ER to the ward, the flurry of nurses and doctors and the talk that he could hardly understand that beamed from their mouths but stopped short of his brain. All he knew was that Ivan visited him in the ward after lunch, and told him how Sofiya was doing and any messages that she might have had for him.

It was funny to him, how much easier it was for him to understand her words than it was to understand the words of the doctors—and they were much more crucial to him than Sofiya's words of encouragement and support. But it seemed that her words were easier to digest than the medical talk that he couldn't wrap his brain around. Funny and ironic as it was, he knew that it was the truth and it would continue to be that way up until the minute they finally let him go. But his first day in the ward turned into two, and then three—and he was starting to decide that he might never leave if things kept up.

He refused to let himself get used to the monotony of his new hospital life. Every morning, a trip to the bathroom—which he was unable to do on his own, apparently, because the trip was always made with a nurse who would hold him steadily by the arm. Then, breakfast, after which he was allowed a small walk. The children's ward was somewhat small, and surprisingly quiet. He met few other children on his morning walks, as most of them were asleep (the ones that were awake were lying comfortably in bed, eating their own breakfasts or nodding off into napping). He had few friends.

After his morning walk he would sit in bed quietly and stare out the window, contemplating anything that came to mind. By the time lunch came around he had filled his head with so many thoughts he wasn't sure what had come first. He was never hungry during breakfast and so hardly ate anything—the same was true for lunch, although he always tried to eat more than he had the day before. The end of lunch brought Ivan, his only visitor, and his messages from Sofiya. After that, more contemplating, dinner, a final bathroom break, and sleep. All in all, his days were one in the same, and it was becoming hard to tell how long he had been there anymore.

Eventually he learned that a week had blurred by. In that week he had also learned that he was apparently suffering from mild leukopenia (whatever that was), Sofiya was doing much better, and that in another day he would finally be discharged. He didn't know what had been done to make him better, but if he was leaving, then it was pretty much about time. The doctors that had been examining him finally left, squabbling quietly over their clipboards. Nikolai knew what must have been on there: "Nikolai Kirill Akimov, age 17, born January 18 1969, 5' 5", 142 pounds, hazel eyes, strawberry-blonde-brown hair, pale skin, leukopenia." He could practically recite everything the doctors had about him completely from memory. It felt like it had been much longer than a week.

Lunch came and went and Nikolai sat plaintively in his bed, wondering what he would tell Ivan—and then, after that, what he would do when he was finally turned out upon the world once more. Ivan and Sofiya had been so kind to him in the past week, being there to make sure that he wasn't lonely. But Nikolai couldn't stay; he had a new goal in mind and he didn't want to give it up.  
There was a light knock on the door and Nikolai looked up, smiling-a little forcedly-upon seeing Ivan standing in the doorway. The expression on Ivan's face knocked the smile from Nikolai's completely, however.

"Ivan," Nikolai said quickly, sitting up further in his bed. "Ivan, what's wrong?"

"Sofiya," Ivan said softly, dropping into the chair next to Nikolai's bed. "The radiation, the stress… She lost the baby."


	4. Chapter 4

{**Summary; **He knew-he _knew_-that everything in Chernobyl would go wrong. He knew and yet no one believed him. Nikolai left home-both Pripyat and Russia-for America, with hope that their medical aid would be better... and finds much more than he could have ever wished for.  
Insert usual disclaimer! Cos I'm never going to own DP!

Chapter four! Have I kept you waiting? I probably have, I'm sorry! But here you go. :3 Enjoy!

We're going to learn some new things next chapter, but I won't spoil it. o: You'll just have to wait~}

Nikolai still couldn't believe what he had heard from Ivan, even after the moment had played itself out in his head over and over for the rest of the day. Even after Ivan had gone, leaving Nikolai alone for dinner as usual, he could still hear those four words. This changed everything, he decided to himself as he stared out the window after dinner. He had been planning on leaving tomorrow, when he was released from the hospital (or as soon as he could, anyway), but now that this had happened…

He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. This would delay his leaving; he didn't know for how long, but he knew that he wasn't going to be heading anywhere tomorrow. He laid his head back on his pillow and frowned at the ceiling. _Sofiya,_ he thought. _Sofiya, I'm so sorry. This… this has to be my fault, somehow, I just know it—overexerting yourself to help me; worrying about me when you didn't need to… _He bit his lip and shook his head a little, squeezing his eyes shut. Tomorrow, once he was released from the ward, he would go and see her.

He would go to see her, and he would apologize, and he would stay in Belarus for one more day. And after that day was over, he would leave. He would be sorry to go, but only because he would be leaving Sofiya and Ivan so abruptly—otherwise, he had nothing else to apologize for. He didn't know how long he sat in bed thinking, but before he knew it, he had fallen asleep.

The next morning he woke and after breakfast, he was finally allowed to leave. They returned his satchel, which he hadn't seen since a week ago. After being discharged he left and waited in the hospital's lobby for Ivan, who arrived a little after nine that morning. Together, they quietly made their way to the ward where Sofiya was being taken care of. Nikolai fidgeted and messed with the frayed strap of his satchel, glancing over at Ivan every once in a while. His expression was unreadable. It was worrisome.

"Ivan," Nikolai began, finally, his throat a little tight. "Ivan, I'm so sorry."

Ivan said nothing for a moment, his facial expression still indistinguishable. Nikolai started to speak again, and Ivan shook his head. "You don't need to apologize, Nikolai," he said quietly, his voice quiet but rough. "It wasn't your fault."

"I know, but I'm still sorry. The baby… It was almost yours; you were so close, weren't you? And now… now it's gone. I'm sorry."

Ivan's expression changed and Nikolai feared he had said the wrong words to him. He bit his lip, his brow furrowing nervously. They were silent for a brief moment, the only noise being the sound of their walking. Suddenly, Ivan let out a heavy sigh and sniffed loudly. Nikolai turned, startled by the abruptness of the sound, and gave Ivan a somewhat alarmed stare.

"Ivan?"

"No, no, I'm okay. Really.

Ivan fell silent again. The only sound was the two of them as they walked down the hall, nearing the ward. Nikolai began to worry that what he had said was completely the wrong thing. He bit his lip hard and clutched at his satchel strap, expression twisting to worry. He didn't know how he would rectify this situation, if it came down to it—because he could only say "I'm sorry" so much, and perhaps Ivan was growing tired listening to his repeated apologies, no matter how whole-heartedly he meant them. He chewed on the inside of his cheek nervously and then jumped in surprise when Ivan suddenly let out yet another shuddering mix between a sigh and a sob. He turned to the older man in slight alarm, more surprised than worried.

"Nikolai," Ivan choked out. "It's almost as if you knew how hard it is on me. Thank you."

Silently, but with as comforting of a smile as he could manage, Nikolai gave a small nod. Ivan clapped him on the back lightly and then paused in front of a desk. Nikolai stood off to the side, giving him some privacy as he spoke to the nurse. After a moment or two Ivan gestured and Nikolai followed him off to a room a little way down the hall. Gently, Ivan pushed open the door and stepped inside, a smile lighting up his face.

"Sofiya, my little bird—I've brought you a visitor," he said, moving over to her bed and planting a kiss on her forehead. He gestured at Nikolai, who smiled and gave her a little wave.

"Hello, Sofiya."

"Nikolai—it's so wonderful to finally see you again." Sofiya's voice was quiet but she sounded happy. "How are you? You look well. I'm happy for you, they've finally let you out."

"I'm fine, thank you. How are you doing? I-I mean, aside from…" Nikolai trailed off, floundering a little for something to say. Sofiya didn't seem too bothered, however. Her smile hardly faltered, and she brushed her hair behind her ears.

"I'm doing very well. They should be letting me out soon. Just as they've let you out… I'll be happy for that." She seemed to think about something for a moment, her expression changing. "You… don't have anywhere to stay, do you? You were from Pripyat, not here—you don't have a place to stay. Am I right?"

Nikolai nodded. "Right."

"Why don't you stay with Ivan?"

"Oh. Actually, I was… I was planning on something, but that's a generous offer. Thank you, but I have to decline." Nikolai smiled apologetically.

"Planning on something?" Ivan asked.

Nikolai nodded again, and for a split second he debated on telling Ivan and Sofiya that he wanted to leave. Finally, however, he decided that they—if anyone—deserved to know. He couldn't just go and leave them, not after what they had done for him. He took a deep breath and then, trying hard not to rush, admitted (still rather hastily): "I'm going to travel. I… I want to leave the country."

{DUN DUN DUNNN.  
Also, why does this chapter look so much smaller in the editing stage? o no}


	5. Chapter 5

{It's me again! Still not owning DP, of course. Sorry this took a bit long do get but. . . it's here, yeah? We're getting to the good part soon I swear (did I say that last time? I think I did. Uhm.)!

Just. . . Just hang with me here okay? I swear we'll get to everything great soon! D:}

Nikolai nodded again, and for a split second he debated on telling Ivan and Sofiya that he wanted to leave. Finally, however, he decided that they—if anyone—deserved to know. He couldn't just go and leave them, not after what they had done for him. He took a deep breath and then, trying hard not to rush, admitted (still rather hastily): "I'm going to travel. I… I want to leave the country."

There was a tense silence. Nikolai fidgeted and looked down, not willing to make eye contact with the two. He pushed his fingertips together and then drew them apart, repeating the action a few times as the silence stretched. He swallowed a little and looked up, glancing between Ivan and Sofiya a little nervously. He wanted to say something, try to show his reasoning, but he wasn't totally sure himself why he wanted to leave. He bit his lip and held back a sigh.

Sofiya cleared her throat. "You… you want to leave? Why?"

Nikolai shook his head. "I'm not sure. I just… I just want to leave. I can't stay here."

"Why not? Nikolai, it's dangerous to just leave—and especially so if you don't even have a plan in mind for when you get there!" Sofiya sounded upset and uncertain, and Nikolai had to look away upon seeing the worried expression in her eyes. He was afraid that if he looked too long he wouldn't want to leave any longer. He didn't want to hurt Sofiya any more than he knew he already had by breaking this news to her.

He looked to Ivan, who was sitting in a contemplative silence, though his brow was furrowed. Nikolai hoped he hadn't hurt him, too, although he was sure that it was too late to wish that. Sofiya too looked over at Ivan, almost as though she were wishing he would say something that would change Nikolai's mind. Secretly Nikolai hoped he would stay silent. He didn't think he could handle any more guilt.

"Ivan," Sofiya said, her voice a little choked. "Ivan, tell him something, you know he can't just leave."

"We can't stop him, Sofiya," Ivan said softly. "It's his decision. If he wants to leave, why shouldn't we let him? We aren't his parents, my little bird."

"But it's dangerous, and if he has no one there for him—no family, no friends—how long will he even survive there if he hasn't a person to look out for him? Ivan, we can't let him do this. Please…" She turned to Nikolai again, reaching out for him, gesturing for him to come to her. He had no choice but to move to her side, letting her place her hand on his arm, holding it tightly. "Nikolai, you can't go."

"I'm sorry, Sofiya," Nikolai said quietly. "I hate to leave you like this, but I have to do this. There isn't anything left here for me."

"But you don't have a thing, Nikolai—just that satchel… No clothes, no money, right?"

"I have some money. I can always get clothes later, these are fine for right now. What I have right now is enough for me to—"

"No, it isn't," Sofiya said sharply, giving his arm a squeeze. "You can't go running to another country without some sort of plan. You'll die out there if you try to do something like that."

"I can take care of myself," Nikolai said sharply—maybe a little more sharply than he would have liked. Sofiya seemed hurt, and he instantly regretted even thinking of leaving. Sofiya's hand was no longer holding his arm, though it still hovered in the air, her fingertips brushing his skin lightly. He closed his eyes a little and let out a small sigh. "Look, Sofiya—I know this might be a bad idea, but I have to do this. I just… something is telling me to do this. I don't want to ignore it."

_I didn't ignore it with Chernobyl, _he thought to himself. _And look. I'm still alive. I was in a hospital, sure—I'm still _standing_ in the hospital—but I'm alive. _

Sofiya sniffed, rubbing at one eye a little absently. "Well," she said, and was quiet for a moment. "Well," she said again.

Ivan suddenly spoke. "If you want to leave, we aren't going to stop you, Nikolai. But stay at least one more day. Don't rush off into this without preparing yourself."

"Of course. That was… that was actually what I was thinking." He tried to smile a little at Sofiya. "I know I can't just run off to a new country. Did you think I was just going to up and leave today?" He gave a tiny, uncertain laugh, rubbing his arm a little.

Sofiya chuckled a little, though she still appeared hurt and uncertain. "As long as you aren't just going to leave, Nikolai. Promise me you'll at least have a plan before you decide to leave tomorrow, okay? And… if you have to go before you can come to say goodbye to me, tell Ivan your plan, so he can tell me. I want to rest easy."

"Of course, Sofiya," Nikolai said. "I'll try to come in to see you before I go, but if I can't I'll tell Ivan everything."

"Thank you, Nikolai," said Sofiya quietly, smiling.

Nikolai nodded and returned her smile, feeling a little better now that things appeared to be sorted out. He stayed with Ivan and Sofiya until lunch, and after saying goodbye to Sofiya for the day Ivan took him out to get something to eat. Afterwards they went to the hotel where Ivan was staying. Nikolai sat on the bed Ivan told him he could have and set his satchel down beside him. He had to come up with a plan for Sofiya now, even though he wasn't exactly sure what he wanted to do.

His head started to hurt a little and he rubbed his temples with a frown. _Not now, _he thought sourly. He couldn't deal with this headache while he tried to plan a better life for himself. All he knew for sure at the moment was that he wanted to go to America. People always talked about how much better it was—well, not _always _talked about it, but he had heard things. He wanted to have his own experience in America. Back home he hadn't been much. He was scrawny and much too shy. No one really saw much in him, he knew for sure.

In America, though, he knew he could make something of himself. Or at least, he had high hopes about it. He rubbed at his temples again and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, biting his lip. He couldn't be feeling sick again; he would have to hide it from Ivan somehow, because if he started showing symptoms again, what would stop Ivan from bringing him back to the hospital? Nikolai couldn't wait another week to go to America. He had to do this now, or at least as soon as he could get.

Ivan, who had been lying on his own bed for most of the time since they'd been there, looked over at him. "You all right, Nikolai?"

"Yeah, I'm okay," Nikolai said, a little too quickly. He cleared his throat to try and cover for his rushed reply. "I'm fine. Just a little headache, if I rest I'm sure it'll go away."

Ivan looked at him with a small frown and then gave a shrug. "Resting would be good, yes. You should nap, then."

"Right." Nikolai nodded and put his head on his pillow, turning away from Ivan. He faced the window and frowned to himself, closing his eyes. He would go to America. He would go there and he would make something of himself and he wouldn't let this stupid radiation sickness get to him. He still had to make his plan so that Sofiya wouldn't have to worry, but he could always do that later on. He had most of the day anyways, it was only a little past noon.

Confident in this beginning of a plan, Nikolai nodded to himself and pressed his face closer to his pillow, breathing in the slight scent of clean linen through his nose. It was comforting. With a tiny smile he allowed himself to relax as best as he could, and even despite his headache he managed to drift to sleep quickly. As his mind grew fuzzy and blank, he only hoped that his trip to America would be as quick and smooth as it was to fall asleep…


	6. Chapter 6

{Sup guys! I'm not dead~! Usual disclaimer here, more author's notes at the end.}

When Nikolai next woke, it was three in the afternoon. The sun shone through the window and threw a puddle of golden light over him, warming his skin while simultaneously forcing him to squint and roll over. He debated sleeping for a little longer but the sun had pushed him too far into the waking world. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, pushing his hair back. He stretched and from the other bed, Ivan looked over with a smile, closing the book he was reading.

"Oh, Nikolai, you're awake," he said. "Are you feeling hungry? You didn't have much at lunch, so I thought we might go out and get an early dinner and some drinks."

"I'm still one year too young for drinking," Nikolai laughed. "But an early dinner would be nice, I am feeling kind of hungry."

Ivan chuckled and stood, setting his book on the nightstand. "We can still go out for drinks, you'll just have to miss out on the vodka, hm?" He grinned and moved over to the TV stand. His shoes were on the other side and he stooped to slip them on, holding the backs as he pushed his feet in. Nikolai got up and stretched, picking up his satchel and slinging it over his shoulder. His shoes were still on (he hadn't taken them off when he fell asleep) so he waited until Ivan was ready.

Ivan grabbed his wallet from the nightstand and put it in his pocket, then turned to Nikolai. "Ready to go?"

"Yeah."

Together they left their room. They were on the first floor so they were able to head straight to the lobby, where Ivan gave a small wave to the receptionist at the desk. Nikolai gave a small nod but kept his head down until they stepped out onto the street. They stood for a moment. Nikolai heard Ivan take in a deep breath and let it out in a relaxed sigh. He almost wanted to imitate him but didn't, although he did allow himself to take in a deep breath of the outside air. He did have to admit, it felt nice being able to be outside for once.

"It's too nice to drive," Ivan said. "You don't mind a little walking, do you Nikolai?"

"No, walking is fine." Nikolai paused, giving a small nod. "I need fresh air anyway, I was stuck in that hospital for so long."

Ivan chuckled. "That's right, you were stuck inside for a while, eh? Well, walking will be good for you anyway. There's a place not too far from here where I've been getting dinner for the past few days. We can go there."

"That sounds good," said Nikolai.

They started walking and Nikolai looked around, taking in the sights of the city he had been so desperate to reach a week ago. It wasn't as great as he had thought but it was certainly something. It was different than Pripyat for sure. His now-radiation-soaked hometown was probably deserted at this point. He stuck his hands in his pockets and pushed away the thought. He was in Belarus now, he was getting closer to his goal of leaving—he couldn't reflect on things that had happened in the past, lest they somehow keep him from moving on to his ultimate goal.

He watched a little girl ride past on her bike, her blonde-brown hair tied into two little pigtails. She glanced at him as she rode along but said nothing, although she flashed him a shy smile and giggled. A little boy rounded the corner ahead of Nikolai and Ivan and he called after the girl, holding out a round rubber ball.

"Korin! Korin, wait! Let's play ball together, I won't tease you like them!"

Nikolai didn't know who 'them' was, but apparently Korin did—Nikolai heard her snap, "Don't pretend to be nice to me, Sasha!" The rest of the conversation died away as Nikolai and Ivan continued to walk, although when Nikolai looked over, Ivan had a small smile on his face. Noticing Nikolai looking at him, Ivan chuckled.

"Cute, aren't they? I saw them every day on my way to dinner this past week."

Nikolai nodded. "He likes her, probably. That's what it seems like. I used to be like that as a kid."

"I think everyone was, at one point," Ivan said. "I used to act like that as a teenager, too. That's how I was towards Sofiya."

"Well, it worked."

Ivan smiled. "It did."

Nikolai paused for a while and they continued to walk in silence. After a moment he turned to Ivan curiously. "You love Sofiya very much, don't you?"

"Of course; did you doubt that, Nikolai?"

"No, never," Nikolai said, shaking his head quickly. "But the way you talk about her—you really do love her. In a way, I suppose it could be cute just like those kids, except you and Sofiya are married. It's still very sweet, though." He shrugged slightly and rubbed the back of his neck, abashed. "I'm sorry, that probably didn't make any sense."

Ivan laughed. "I understand what you mean, Nikolai. I agree with you, sometimes I still do seem as though I still have my school-boy crush on Sofiya."

They walked a little while longer and Ivan put a hand out to stop Nikolai, gesturing to a small café across the street. "There it is," he said.

Nikolai didn't see a name over the door, but he didn't really mind much at all—it didn't matter in the long run anyway, if the food was good (although compared to hospital food, Nikolai thought perhaps he could eat almost anything). He let Ivan lead the way across the street and into the restaurant; once inside he looked around curiously, letting the various smells entice and surround him. He could smell soups cooking, and meat; his mouth began to water a little, longing for something more appetizing than what he had been served for the past week.

He and Ivan were seated and handed a menu. The waitress—a pretty, young girl with dark hair cut short to her chin and brown eyes—came to their table shortly afterwards. "My name is Ekaterina, I'll be your waitress today. Can I get you anything to drink?" She looked at them, her gaze lingering on Nikolai for a few seconds longer, and glanced down at the notepad in her hands, almost seeming abashed. Ivan grinned at Nikolai, who flushed a little, his freckles standing out on his cheeks.

They both ordered water and sat back in their seats as Ekaterina left to fetch their drinks. They were silent for a little while, lost in their own thoughts. Nikolai examined his menu silently, not sure exactly what he wanted. He could hear Ivan tapping a finger on the table as he consulted his own menu. The silence continued to stretch. Nikolai wasn't sure what he was to say, if anything. He browsed the soups section of the menu, uncertain if he would be able to stomach anything solid just yet.

"I think I might try the shashlyk today," Ivan said after a while. "People order it often, and it always smells very good, but I've never decided to get it for myself."

Nikolai nodded. "It sounds good," he said. "I think I'm going to have borscht. I don't know if I'm going to eat much of anything solid. Not right now, anyway. I think I can handle the bread and Smetana, though."

"Whatever you'd like. I had the borscht, actually; it's a good choice for you right now," Ivan said. "You aren't going to try anything else, though?"

"Oh, no, I don't want to ask for too much. It's enough that you're going to pay for what I'm having already, plus you're letting me stay with you until I go…"

"It's fine, Nikolai," Ivan said, waving his hand in dismissal. "You can get anything you want, really. We could share a vatrushka; maybe save a bit for Sofiya—if you want to, that is. I think I might get one to share with her tomorrow anyway, actually."

"You can do that, I really don't want to ask for too much; it's very kind of you to even offer, Ivan." Nikolai ran a finger along a worn edge of his menu. He appreciated everything that Ivan and Sofiya had done for him, and he really did appreciate the offers Ivan was making now. But he didn't want to be a burden on them; he didn't want to make Ivan spend so much. But it wasn't only that—he was afraid that if he let Ivan do all this for him, he would be less inclined to leave.

Ekaterina returned, carrying their drinks. She set their glasses in front of them and drew her notepad from her pocket, pen at the ready. "Are you ready to order, or should I wait?" she asked with a smile, looking at the both of them. Again, her gaze lingered on Nikolai, though when he glanced up at her she didn't falter—she held his gaze for a moment, but turned to Ivan when he spoke.

"Yes—I'll order a plate of shashlyk, please."

Ekaterina nodded. "With or without onions?"

"With, please."

"Anything else?" She cocked her hip to one side as she wrote, glancing up and brushing her bangs back to look at Ivan.

"Mn, not right now. Nikolai?"

Nikolai blinked. "Oh, yes—I'll have a bowl of borscht. With beef."

"White bread and Smetana?"

"Yes. Please." Nikolai handed her his menu. She smiled and took the menu, as well as Ivan's. She paused for a moment, seeming to think as she looked down at her notepad.

"I'll be back soon with your food," she said finally. With one last smile she left. Nikolai watched her until she disappeared into the kitchen and turned back to Ivan. His cheeks darkened as he noticed the smile on Ivan's face and immediately began to shake his head.

"No, I already know what you're thinking—stop it, Ivan, I don't like her!" he said, keeping his voice low but urgent.

Ivan chuckled. "She is pretty, though, isn't she?"

Nikolai had to agree. "Well, yes, but that doesn't mean I like her. W-well, I mean, I don't like her like _that _anyway. She would make a good friend."

Ivan simply laughed and they fell into a comfortable silence. Nikolai's cheeks still burned with his blush, although after a few moments it finally left. He rubbed his cheeks a little subconsciously afterwards, though he didn't look up, in case he saw Ekaterina again. He had been telling the truth—he didn't _like _her, even if she did seem like a nice person. Even though she was very pretty, Nikolai hadn't immediately fallen in love with her. He almost scoffed at the notion. He wouldn't ever fall so quickly in love with a girl—love took time. His father had taught him that, or at least told him that many times.

"It took time for your mother and me to fall in love," he used to say, and Nikolai always believed him. Apparently Ekaterina hadn't been taught the same, or if she had, then she hadn't paid much attention to it. Nikolai was set on what he had learned, though. He fidgeted a little and ran a finger around the rim of his water glass, his expression glazing over a bit.

"You know," Ivan said suddenly, "We were going to name the baby Irina."

"It was a girl?" Nikolai looked up in surprise, his finger hovering over the glass rim.

Ivan nodded. "She was going to be our beautiful baby girl. Irina Anastasiya Lebedev."

"I'm sure she would have been a beautiful girl, to fit such a beautiful name," Nikolai said quietly. "I'm sorry, Ivan."

Ivan shook his head, smiling sadly. "Perhaps one day we will try again. I've always wanted a baby girl to take care of. A little bird for _my_ little bird; our own little Irina…"

After dinner, Nikolai and Ivan headed back to the hotel. They spent most of the evening in silence. Nikolai showered and then sat at the desk in their room, staring at a blank sheet of paper. In his right hand he held a pen and tapped it on his knee with a frown, thinking. He glanced over at his passport, which sat near him on the desk, and then turned back to his paper. At the top it read, "_For Sofiya—Nikolai's Plan,_" but other than that, it was blank. He rubbed his temples and sighed. He couldn't think.

"Well," he said to himself after a moment. "I suppose the first part of my plan would be to get a plane ticket." He wrote, "_Buy plane ticket" _on the paper and continued drumming the pen on his knee. "_Fly to America. Find a home, get a job." _He sat awake for an hour, trying to somehow refine his plan, but even after he had gone to bed he lie awake thinking. There was only one thought that passed through his mind the entire time, until the moment he fell asleep.

_Do I really want to leave?_

_{_Not much to say here other than: uh oh, conflict! Internal~~

Also, you learned two important things that won't show up until way later, maybe-you won't have caught the important stuff unless you were really paying attention (and no, it has nothing to do with Ekaterina). Trust me though, this stuff probably won't show up again until way later.

Also little sidenotes:  
-What Ivan ordered was basically a shish-ka-bob;  
-Nicky ordered a soup made of broth, beets, and tomato juice (also veggies, including onions, cabbage, tomato, carrots, and celery). Sometimes it's got beef in it too, which is what he got. Smetana is basically sour cream (from what I've read, anyway); and  
-Vatrushka is a cake with cottage cheese and a ring of dough in the middle. Sometimes has raisins or bits of fruit in it. Varies in size.

If I'm wrong go ahead and correct me hahaha~ Borrowed the info from Wikipedia.}


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